Too Beautiful
by Dr. Abraxas
Summary: A story about the origin of Sesshoumaru's fluff. sick and twisted alert!


A/N: This is my first attempt at yaoi after several years and false-starts. The idea came after a chat session where several of us wondered just what the heck Sesshoumaru's fluffy thing was. Naturally, I had a very sick and twisted idea... And then I promised to write the idea into a fic.

This won't be easy to take. The bulk of the story takes place when Sesshoumaru is young (ages 15). He's not a warrior and only beginning to understand the full extent of his powers. He goes undercover - he pretends to be a geisha-like character - to get as close as possible to a certain enemy of his father. Along the journey Sesshoumaru realizes something about himself that he struggles to understand and control...

* * *

**Disclaimer:** The characters of Inuyasha are not mine; they are property of Rumiko Takahashi, Shogakukan, Yomiuri TV, Sunrise and Viz.

**"Too Beautiful" by Abraxas 2008-03-23**

revised 2008-05-12

"Too Beautiful" by Abraxas (2008-05-12)

It was a gray, frigid afternoon when Jaken searched about the halls of the castle to find Lord Sesshoumaru.

A message had been sent by a wolf-demon, ally of Inu no Taisho, who insisted the situation was urgent. Yet the master of the house could not be found and failed to meet with the warrior at the gates. Jaken was forced to be uncomfortably humble and apologetic just to smooth what could have been a very awkward moment, and now that great dog demon remained aloof, he feared the slight would be considered insult and lead to disaster.

The only hope against a scandal was the messenger's own hurried demeanor, which only proved the situation was serious and Lord Sesshoumaru needed to reply.

Jaken was confused by everything happening. Normally, Lord Sesshoumaru hated to be castled. Each and every day since their arrival, he paced about its halls, looking upset and anxious, as if -- no -- he banished that thought out of his head. To think of Lord Sesshoumaru like a dog abandoned!

Still, the master was distant that day, that day unlike any other day, though it was the anniversary of a tragedy. In fact, more and more, there was a strange and curious convergence between the dismal weather and the melancholic mood.

It was rare for Lord Sesshoumaru to be moved, but it happened from time to time. And when it happened, Jaken knew he should not be a bother. It was not that the master was unduly violent against the servant. It was those eyes -- that stare -- it could have killed a man. Yes, he would have to be careful.

Soon he found the chamber.

Candles were lit, that much could be discerned through the crack along the doorway, yet no motion could be sensed within. Nevertheless, it proved to be the only sign of occupancy throughout the fortress, and it was worth a determined if cautious try. Slowly and quietly, he eased the doorway ajar just a crack -- a blade of light, as bright as silver, sliced across his flesh like a sword -- then he peeked into the bedroom.

He blinked; his eyes needed adjustment from the dark to the bright. Meanwhile, he was overcome by a wave of vertigo, unexpected and sudden, strong enough that he clutched onto the frame to keep upright. It just seemed as though the chamber plummeted into an abyss of gray, formless blur. Then, when the order returned to the world, he gasped. He darted aback, away. Almost jumping at the fright, almost dropping that scroll delivered by the wolf-demon.

Jaken was not prepared for what awaited beyond the crack of the entrance.

Dungeons of spiders fornicating into goo would have been safer to behold than what he saw unfold then and there.

It was Lord Sesshoumaru, his back to the reptile, his attention transfixed to a closet. Its contents were cloaked by darkness and shadow as impenetrable as the demon's own face. Except one, singular item. And the demon grabbed it, it was suspended from the ceiling by a cord, the hand yanked it free of its restraint without bothering to untie the thread.

There was such passion, such emotion -- such lust -- revealed by the grip of the hand!

At once violent, bottomless rage and yet, could it be, mixed with tenderness?

Lord Sesshoumaru turned aside, bringing portions of the item into the candlelight. It was snake-like. White and fluffy. It resembled the shape and character of a tail but that description did not fit _entirely_. It could have been a part of a costume but that, too, could not be its purpose. Jaken could not fathom why, but the very thought of it -- it was wrong, just wrong.

It had to be more than fur, more than garment. No accessory could have warranted that attention. Else -- why did Lord Sesshoumaru caress it? Why did he ruffle its fur through his fingers? Why did he stroke its length across his face? Why did he bring it against his lips, to inhale its odor?

He draped it about his shoulders to intermingle with the smooth, flawless skin of his body.

What could it be? That fluff!

And then Jaken caught Lord Sesshoumaru display an act of intimacy with it that no lurid, immoral mind could have conjured. The image of it happening -- really, actually happening -- took his breath away. He felt struck as if by a blow. He wanted to believe it was unreal, imagined but it was true. So, so true! The sights and sounds. Oh, god, the sounds! Those weird, muffled vocalizations

Jaken withdrew, afraid he would not survive if caught.

Unaware of the servant's fear, the master was lost, consumed by the memory of a moment -- a night long, long ago -- that only he knew about. It was a time when he led a life few could have imagined -- even suspected as possible -- for a demon of his rank. So perfect and complete were the secrets of Lord Sesshoumaru!

And the mystery of the fluff thoroughly pleased him.

That tuft of white, unwrapping, falling, no one understood it. His father thought it was strange, but gave it only a few, curious looks. He could not make the connection, despite his years of experience. His allies could be a little uncomfortable every now and then but avoided the subject. They, too, did not make the connection, though from time to time their faces revealed they noticed traces of the familiar and common. At the end, it was easiest to believe it was merely an accessory of fashion.

All the better that the world thought it was nothing -- if they knew the secret, he would have been undone, not so much because of what it was but because of how it came to be.

He gripped it, and he fancied it winced, pained.

Like he was pained. And tormented. For he loved _and_ hated it and everything it represented. It was schizophrenia _incarnated_. Indeed, without that mixture of emotion, it would not have existed.

_It was just too beautiful to let die_, he thought.

Maybe, if he waited until he was stronger, then he would have been spared the shame of that life. And he would not have developed that angst. At the end, it did not matter. To dwell upon the would-be, could-be history of what already happened was a waste of time. It was finished. It was complete.

To avenge the name of the family, _it_ was such a little price to pay.

* * *

He was not always Lord Sesshoumaru -- once, he was very young and inexperienced and, though he would not admit it, weak. It was natural. A demon of that stature did not emerge into the world fully formed; a step-by-step construction was required. The skill of a swordsman was the product of practice with the warriors of the clan. The cool and detached demeanor of a noble was the result of experience across a lifetime spent about the world. Even the physical, imposing features -- like the marks upon his face -- did not appear until the last shred of boyhood was obliterated by time.

Yes, there was a time, now forgotten by all living creatures, when only his eyes revealed his true demonic nature.

And, for the briefest span of time, he dwelt among humans. Not because of curiosity, but because of convenience -- the lowliness of it provided the cover within which to pursue a certain clandestine operation. Indeed, given the occupation he pursued and the company he kept, who would have suspected he was the son of Inu no Taisho? And even if a few discovered his heritage, they would not have suspected his lineage.

Sesshoumaru recalled wandering, roaming from town to town, until he reached the object of the obsession at the capitol of the Kagewaki clan. The Kagewaki were not strong-blooded, due to generations of inbreeding, and their weakness was such that the seat of their power was controlled by the corrupt. One center of commerce was notorious with respect to the business that transpired, secretly though defiantly, against the orders of the clan's loyal samurai. During the day, it was difficult to notice it amid the shops that catered to the needs of the townsfolk. Except for the occasional violence and shakedowns, the sector appeared to be normal. But during the night, when the 'honest' patrons retired, the area assumed a very different character altogether.

It was the night that exposed thieves and gamblers -- and, of course, it was the climate that lured into its web those whose profession involved the entertainment of men.

Sesshoumaru could not forget that day. It was twilight, drizzling and cold, like autumn. He emerged from a hostel procured by well-earned wages. With a quiet, brisk gait, he trekked along the road, through the throngs of farmers and merchants, toward that center of sin deep in the heart of the city. Along the way, there were men who bumped against him seemingly by accident but understood to be intentional -- just to feel a taste of the indecent. The rest of the population, not bold enough to act, were resigned to stare and fantasize.

He could have choked at the arousal that polluted the air, but he did not protest _outwardly_.

At last, free of the mob, he reached the Purple Monk Inn, an establishment run by the Yakuza.

Two soldiers stood guard at the entrance. Like the rest of the people, they gazed at Sesshoumaru's figure of fine, angelic pubescence. It was routine by then, so much so that he did not notice. The truth of the matter was that he needed to attract that attention -- it was a part of the business -- it was just that he did not appreciate the attention received while not working. But that seemed to be impossible to avoid, even though he wore the simplest clothes without makeup. As he was at that juncture: hair dyed black, long and unkempt; lips and cheeks unpainted to expose a face ravaged by the hormones of a teenager; and clothes, which he hoped to be repulsive, a white kimono with red haori and hakama, with feet exposed and dirty, spared the street only by the elevation of sandals.

Despite the visage, they could not help but stare.

Then a soldier grabbed Sesshoumaru's crotch.

"Don't fight it, sweet-heart, just give it to me -- oh -- that's quite a surprise you keep down there!"

The other soldier laughed but did not approach.

Sesshoumaru, who had been whisked away from the entrance by the harassment, simply gazed -- a low, dog-like rumble accompanied the daggers of his eyes.

The man released the demon and staggered aback onto the wall. His jaw dropped while his eyes started out of his skull. By the look of that face, which was colorless and aged, one could have thought the man was confronted by death itself.

The other soldier, confused by the reaction, came to his friend's aid. He asked what was wrong but could not get a reply beyond a stammered and breathless whimper. He was about to confront Sesshoumaru, who continued into the doorway, but he stopped and, like his friend, gasped. Instinct impelled him to keep clear of the figure -- the sight of the creature marching into the entrance seemed to be utterly and completely inhuman.

Within the establishment, a woman attended the counter.

"Early again, Sara," she said to Sesshoumaru.

The woman, who was ancient yet alive by a kind of spiritual corruption, greeted the demon with a smile that rarely issued toward the 'guests.'

"I need the attic," he said and produced five coins.

"Of course, of course."

She was pleased because he was a regular who always paid in advance.

"And privacy -- there may be, sounds, tonight."

The woman almost blushed at Sesshoumaru's matter-of-fact tone.

"Of course, of course, privacy is my specialty."

* * *

Alone upstairs, free from the gaze of men and women, the demon prepared. It would be a very special and different kind of night. The kind of night destined to change, profoundly, his world and his future within it. And if there were justice, it would be the last time he suffered among humankind.

The leering eyes, probing. The unclean hands, ravaging. The lust for the youth of his body. It revolted, him but he kept that anger bottled, that temper checked. But how he would have killed those people just for the annoyance of their presence! Kill them -- with a flick of the wrist. Kill them -- with a shout. Kill them -- with a thought. He raged. He would have given his soul to dispatch them as easily as insects!

Yet, he could not act. Everything would have been ruined if he broke that cover. He sacrificed too much already, just to reach _this day_.

This day of days!

To avenge the insults the Enemy unleashed against his family was worth any physical sacrifice. Nobody, especially a traitor, accused his father of bedding with humans. Worse, of producing hanyou! _Hanyou_! His father was greater, infinitely greater, than a fornicator spawning half-breeds. He vowed at that moment, at that instant, to seek out and destroy the worthless wolf who betrayed his family.

Without the use of a mirror, he readied his face by reciting a ritual instilled by memory. First, the combing and bundling of the hair. Then, the application of the makeup: lips, eyes and cheeks. A fine, skin-toned powder was dusted across the flesh to soften the unnatural white complexion of a demon. At last, when the head was complete, the body was attended: the hands and feet were washed and the attire was donned layer by layer. The ritual was a trick learned while apprenticing with actors -- after days and days of lurking about the basement of the theater, watching and studying how men transformed into women.

And there were other, different talents he learned from those actors -- lessons that proved to be invaluable.

Everything, all of it, turn by turn, led inexorably to what he accomplished each and every night.

But because he excelled at it did not mean he enjoyed it: he hated it -- and himself.

He hated himself because his weakness forced his degradation. But, when he could not challenge the Enemy _directly,_ it was the only way to come near enough to strike.

At the end, was he not like a hanyou, pretending to be one thing or another?

Beyond the loathing of what he endured was the fear of a realization. The vocabulary he knew could not describe it. He wished it was not so, but it happened and it competed with his duty that his vow demanded.

Vengeance should not have been an internal struggle of such magnitude.

He cursed when he saw the weapon atop the futon. It was forgotten. Was that yet another symptom of the conflict?

It was a long, thin dagger, housed within a sheath of leather.

Sesshoumaru gazed at the virginal edge of the blade. He imagined what it would be like to slice flesh with it. To kill, at last, to transform into what he was destined to be.

He knew the force needed to dislodge the dagger from the sheath. He knew how to slide it free, straight and clean, with a swing of the arm. How many times already was that action practiced perfectly?

He sighed and wondered why he hesitated.

Then, the obi was loosened and the robes were removed -- there was still time to correct what had been overlooked.

* * *

It was the dead of night when Sesshoumaru sneaked out of the Purple Monk Inn. Ordinarily, he was not evasive, but he did not want to endure those two soldiers at the entrance again. He felt he would be unable to control the urge to complete what had been left unfinished earlier.

He would have rather kept to the forgotten, darker streets. Alas, he knew it was safer to be within the crowd than to be away from it. It meant squeezing through rows of men who were as free with their hands as with their eyes. Avoiding the dangers of drunks. And keeping clear of gangsters with their own, miscreant designs. He could have killed anybody who dared to be threatening, but that would have destroyed the cover of the operation.

The walk through the sector was a ritual those two agreed to follow when the trysts started. He trekked along the street from the hostel to the gambling houses of the center of the city. He continued onward, toward the markets used by the artisans. There, away from the watch of the Yakuza, he waited. If the Enemy wanted to spend a night together, he would be there, too, pacing within the alley.

Sesshoumaru's heart raced as if this night were the very first night.

He was -- he was -- there! There! The Enemy waited.

Sesshoumaru struggled to regain composure; he did not want to alarm the demon with signs of unease.

The creature within the alley pointed to a passage behind the market -- it wanted to talk _privately_.

Sesshoumaru entered the passage through a gate that shut slowly and silently.

He almost jumped -- no -- screamed when a hand clutched his buttocks.

The Enemy laughed.

He unfurled his fan and pressed it against his face.

"Jumpy tonight?"

The demon snatched the youth's free, unfanned hand and held it, tight and lovingly, within that void of shadow and darkness that was the passage. Only the creature's red, eerie eyes illuminated the alley, and suddenly, they extinguished. Sesshoumaru prepared for the Enemy's greeting: a wet, sloppy kiss against the lips.

He replied by reflexively wrapping the arm with the fan across the demon's back to embrace, as though he enjoyed the contact.

Then the creature's arms wrapped around the youth's waist.

Sesshoumaru hated the strength of those arms, their warmth, their touch that violated the yearning of his body.

Yet -

Why return the kiss with another and another and another? Why reach into the demon's thigh? Why thrust into the stranger's body tightly as if to merge?

"You pretty, pretty thing."

The Enemy withdrew. He clasped Sesshoumaru's hands -- the fan was dropped and forgotten -- he brought the boy's fingers into the folds of his kimono.

Sesshoumaru felt a tuft of short, curly hair. He dug and found the base of a shaft, throbbing, as hard as rock. He stroked its length, massaging its soft, smooth skin. He dug deeper and deeper and discovered the tip of soft, yet hot flesh peeking through a rim of skin.

The Enemy laughed at the youth's excitement -- then he exposed his erection through his robes.

"Poor old thing," the youth said, softly. "Put it away -- it'll get cold --"

"You'll keep me warm, won't you?" He brought the boy's hands upon the length of his shaft. "You'll warm me, won't you?"

Sesshoumaru betrayed the nature of his fascination when he continued to explore the penis. The glans -- especially its tightening and retreating foreskin -- he loved the way the tip grew and forced the skin away. It was like a flower blooming through its bud. He teased it with a touch that knew how to extract every last shiver of pleasure.

"Here, in the streets, like animals? Like them?"

The demon laughed again, then hugged Sesshoumaru.

"You make me an animal, Sara," the creature whispered into the youth's ear.

* * *

The trek to the inn was uneventful, yet the night promised to be memorable -- though neither the demon nor the boy was fated to know how until too late.

Within the chamber, its lights extinguished, the Enemy kissed the youth. The creature's hands explored everywhere: clasping those pointed, demonic ears under his hair, massaging those shoulders under his kimono. Undoing the sash and pulling the clothes aside and letting it tumble away.

The demon broke that lock of lips, then started to kiss down from his neck to his waist, where the youth's loincloth harnessed his erection. The stranger pressed the boy's arousal against his face and let the contact linger endlessly.

Playing with the loincloth's white, silky form, the creature exposed Sesshoumaru's shaft and then gazed upon it with his bright, aquatic eyes.

Suddenly Sesshoumaru tensed. The Enemy might be prone to explore further. Saying he was freezing and wanting to be warmed, he raised the demon, slowly, deliberately and removed each and every garment that cloaked that treasure between its legs. He shuddered at the beauty displayed: a perfect, flawless form typical of a wolf. Immediately, he massaged the skin, soft and smooth and contoured by muscles.

"I want to take you," the demon gasped, "let me take you --"

"Again?" Sesshoumaru asked. "I haven't recovered since --"

"You tight, sweet thing." The demon chuckled and licked the youth's lips. "I'd eat you, Sara. I'd swallow you up whole!"

"You, you wolf," Sesshoumaru blushed, "saying things like that to a boy. You big, bad wolf."

The demon growled and playfully shoved Sesshoumaru deeper into the room.

Sesshoumaru pulled his foreskin over the head of the demon's penis. Until the throbs tore it asunder, they were connected, skin to skin. Flesh to flesh. Then he grasped the shaft and pressed it against the sack. The two oval gonads poked through the rough and hairy scrotum. He pushed it further until it extended backward between its legs. He stroked its length, vigorously, slapping the skin back and forth, so fast it made a wet, sloppy sound.

Sesshoumaru gasped at the intensity the stimulation produced with the Enemy.

That was it, that was the part that he knew could not be forgiven. Even if he avenged the family. The stain of what he realized about his very own nature could not be lifted from his soul. He loved the genitals of the Enemy. He loved to touch them, grope them, and weigh them. He was fascinated about the tiniest, littlest details: the tip and the shaft and the folds of flesh that gathered when the skin retracted and the sack with its rough, parallel lines. And he wanted to please those parts and feel everything erupt with ecstasy.

Sesshoumaru reached the futon and lay atop it; he watched and waited to gauge the reply of the Enemy.

The two red eyes appeared, and then the body materialized out of the shadow and darkness.

Looming above the boy, naked and aroused, the demon untied the knot that bound its hair -- the long, black locks spread about its chest. Kneeling onto the futon, slowly and gently, the creature straddled the youth between its legs -- the hair fell like a veil upon its face. Snarling and growling, it licked the youth's eyes while it ground against the boy's thighs.

"Faster, faster!" plead Sesshoumaru. He clutched the demon's shoulder with the left arm. With the right arm, he reached between the creature's legs and squeezed the sack. It was tight. Soon, it would have vanished into the body. He knew each and every moment counted.

Sesshoumaru adjusted the arm that held the shoulder. The demon did not notice that change and did not realize its intent. The boy used the hand to reach that crack between his buttocks. He thrust to mimic the rhythm of the creature -- then -- he heaved until a portion of a handle emerged. He pierced into that orifice with his fingers while steadying the pressure and pushing the rest of the object out of that cavity.

Only two fingers broke through but it was enough to clutch the handle.

He freed the blade without hesitation.

Sesshoumaru saw the Enemy's eyes open when he sliced across the creature's throat.

"For my father -- my father -- Inu no Taisho!" he shouted while slashing.

The Enemy clutched its throat, but it was too little, too late. Already, its energy was drained, and at that moment, amid the confusion of the instant, it could not fight back. The rent Sesshoumaru carved parted like lips and vomited blood like an orgasm of crimson. Through the hands of the demon, the youth drove the blade so deeply into the neck that it severed bone. At last, the head tilted, limp and dead, and the body fell atop the avenger.

Sesshoumaru pushed it away and stood.

He did not feel sick, and he was not struck by euphoria. It was a killing. An act. Nothing more, nothing less. He told himself, again and again, it was intended to end that way. One would be dead. One would be alive. A victim. An assassin.

He wasted the dignity of his body to achieve that triumph of vengeance -- what a small little price to pay.

If he were a warrior, then he would have faced the Enemy across the field of battle. But he was not yet a warrior, and because of that weakness, he felt forced to use a very different tactic: to lure the Enemy into a web of complacency and then strike when it was not expected. He knew of the demon's taste for the young and pubescent -- it was typical of wolf-demons -- he understood it was the key to the creature's undoing.

Along the way, who would have predicted what the encounters awoke within Sesshoumaru?

Just to want the company of males was not a source of shame, but to fall in love with the genitals of the Enemy and to use revenge as a pretext to be intimate with them!

The thought of it could not be condensed into language.

It could not be understood by friends or confessed to religion.

It could not be forgotten, discarded, _killed_, like the Enemy.

It could not be sated --

Yet, in the first reflective moment by himself, _he accepted it_.

Just as he prepared to leave, he gazed at the body of the Enemy. In death, it transformed out of its human guise into the shape of a wolf. A large, gray animal. He stared at it. At the gash upon the neck with the weapon sticking out of it. Then and there, he could not help but look between its legs. The penis could not be seen; only the sheath outlined where it nested within the body.

He stroked the length of the sheath. Its white, soft fur felt eerily familiar. The whole of it was distinctive. The mane of the penis was a different shade of color, compared with the rest of the coat, and its fluff continued well into the region of the scrotum.

He smiled and thought of the virginity of the blade -- and succumbed -- it was just too beautiful to let die.

* * *

Lord Sesshoumaru slid the fluff onto his own erect member through the hole, well preserved and well hidden, out of which the Enemy used to emerge.

He stroked by rubbing the fluff along the length of his shaft. He leaned against the wall, writhing and grunting, yet did not pause the rhythm of his hands. He fell onto his knees, exhausted and weakened, while reaching into ecstasy.

It seemed as if the sheath itself was contracting with surging pleasure through his grip.

He stroked, faster and faster, while thinking about that shaft that used to be hidden by that sheath. He panted while picturing what it must have looked like as it poked out of the fluff. He trembled while imagining it growing stiff and long -- a shiny, pink member, exactly like his shaft when fully transformed.

The urge to ravage the Enemy's shaft swelled into a fantasy, complete with the memories of its tastes and odors and textures, unaltered by time.

A teary, stifled yowl announced the climax of the episode.

Shot after shot, the fluff filled with white hot seed, which dribbled out of the hole and onto the floor.

* * *

"Here? Out in the street? Like animals -- like them?"

"Yes," the demon begged.

The wolf bit into the youth's neck.

Sesshoumaru trembled; he hoped the bite would not leave a mark.

The boy clutched the man's shaft without breaking the embrace.

"It's so hard, so hard -- it's like a rock -- don't you satisfy it?" he taunted.

The creature howled; it gripped onto the boy's shoulders while thrusting and shaking within the boy's two ravaging hands.

"Oh, it likes that, huh," Sesshoumaru whispered. "You can't hide how it likes that. It's getting so, so happy -"

The talk crazed the Enemy. He could not resist the surge of pleasure driven by the youth. His shaft stiffened and lengthened. His head swelled. His tip drooled.

Sesshoumaru succumbed to a madness of desire. He wanted to feel the skin of the shaft riding its length up and down. He needed to explore the textures of the head rubbing against his palm side to side.

The boy turned to face the cheek of the demon -- he wanted to see the load shoot and dribble through his grip.

The wolf froze and announced its orgasm with a yowl, yet he kept stroking.

The eruption issued like a stream. Streaks of white, milky water shot through the dark and glimmered under the light of the stars above. The sight of the wads spurting and exploding and falling into the void -- like petals carried by the wind -- was the most riveting, the most beautiful vision that existed to Sesshoumaru. He gazed _unashamed_ at the love of that uniquely male display. It was a lust he could not begin to describe.

"You can do it forever, and it'll never be enough for you, Sara. It'll never be enough for you. I bet you love _it_ more than you love me."

* * *

He wrapped the fluff, now dry and clean, over his shoulder, about his armor -- fully dressed, at last, he was ready to leave.

Like a prisoner to a dungeon, he wanted to flee that castle. He preferred to be exiled and live like a wanderer across the countryside. He hated to be caged alone with memories. It always brought up events he wished to wipe away forever.

Coming out of the bedroom, he noticed a scroll beside the doorway.

_It must have been Jaken_, he thought and did not probe the events of its delivery further.

He unfurled the document and read it under the torchlight.

His eyes turned an icy, cold electric shade.

Lord Sesshoumaru dropped the scroll and walked away as if it did not exist. There was a time when a letter like that would have meant the end of the world. But that boy died along with those last bloody shreds of innocence.

The sentiment of familial obligation could have been saved if only his actions were not in vain -- if there had not been, in fact, _two_ guilty of treason against the family.

"Jaken," he called. "Let's go."

He vanished into the bowels of the castle, yet there remained the message, unfurled and exposed; it was just a few simple words -

"Inu no Taisho is dead."

END


End file.
